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Chapter Seventy-Three: Oaths and Ties
Unlike the last time it had happened, Harry wasn't snatched out of a sound sleep. He was sitting in the middle of the Slytherin common room, attempting to find the best way to phrase a Potions essay. Draco leaned against his shoulder. Now and then he shifted so that his head pushed into Harry's robe, and muttered sleepily. Harry watched him with a faint smile. He wasn't more than half trying to do his homework. The fire and Harry occupied him far more. Syrinx sat on the next chair, her attention on the motions of her wand. Harry knew she was practicing war witch spells, without actually putting enough force behind the incantations to make the spells happen.
The door to the common room flung open, and Harry moved. He didn't realize it until a moment later, when he found himself facing a blinking Owen, but he had dropped his essay, turned so that Draco lay on the couch instead of on his shoulder, and then whirled so that he was in front of both Draco and Syrinx.
Owen blinked one final time and held up his hand. "I'm not a threat, Harry," he said, voice threaded with anxiety.
Harry dropped his head, and managed to exhale. "I know that." He could see Michael peeking in through the door of the Slytherin common room now, though he dropped back immediately when he caught sight of Harry, and knew what this meant. "Your little sibling is being born?"
"Yes," Owen said. "Come with us, since you promised to stand as the child's godfather, and give her a name." He hovered, looking at Harry expectantly.
"Her?" Harry was already tapping his wrist to speak with Snape and Peter, though, and tell them where he was going, so for a moment he couldn't look back at Owen for the answer. When he did, he surprised a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
"Yes," said Owen simply. "My mother suspected it was a girl, but she discovered it for certain a week ago. The magical signature from her womb was simply too much like a witch's, she said." For a moment, a shadow brushed his face with its wings, but then he shook his head. "Father would have liked to have a daughter," he murmured. "As it was, I shall like having a little sister."
Harry wondered how much of Owen's behavior came from a driving, consuming need to be like Charles. He started to move forward, but a hand caught his shoulder. Draco stood behind him.
"I want to come with you," he said.
Owen caught Harry's eye. "That is not a good idea," he said, "for a variety of reasons."
He didn't need to enumerate them all. Harry understood. Michael, of course, must attend the birth of his younger sibling, but if Draco came with them, then the atmosphere would be tense and uncomfortable. That was the last thing Medusa Rosier-Henlin needed right now. Not to mention that the addition of Draco would require the addition of Syrinx, and that would further enlarge the circle of whom the family shared this birth with, beyond what they wanted.
Harry took a deep breath and faced Draco. "I'm sorry, Draco," he said. "I'm going to ask you to stay here."
"You can't force me to," said Draco, as if he had latched on to the notion of free will and nothing else. Well, perhaps he does think that I'll always let him come with me if he just says that he wants to often enough, Harry thought. There's little else that I've denied him, or wanted to.
"I can't," said Harry. "But you can't Apparate yet, and Owen and Michael and I can. That's enough to make you stay here." He caught Owen's eye, and Owen nodded and turned to lead the way out of the Slytherin common room. Michael had waited in the hallway, luckily. Harry supposed that he might have a modicum of sense, though he hadn't often shown it where Draco was concerned.
Draco grabbed onto his arm and held firm. Harry could see his face flushing as he realized how much they were the target of curious gazes, but even that didn't make him loosen his hold. "I want to go with you," he said, and, when Harry hesitated, evidently thinking that Harry was going to give in, rather than try to find a way to shake him off without hurting him, he lowered his voice. "Please, Harry? Since the attack by Rosier, I simply don't feel safe."
Harry shook himself in irritation, warming the skin under Draco's hands with his magic until Draco let go with a gasp. "Not this time," said Harry shortly. "And you're safer behind the school's wards than you are with me, Draco."
There was a new light in the gaze with which Draco regarded him, meanwhile blowing on his fingers as if they were singed. Harry didn't like it, and suspected they would have an argument later. But he turned and went back to the couch they'd been sitting on without a word. Tragically, he buried himself in his homework again. Syrinx, on her feet and with her wand half-drawn, sat down. Her bright eyes were fixed on Harry's face. Harry couldn't tell what she was thinking.
Owen's hand caught his wrist. "Come on."
Harry nodded, and turned away. He knew how to balance one set of obligations with another set of obligations, and sometimes, he simply couldn't give in to what his boyfriend wanted.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Owen Side-Along Apparated Harry through the Rosier-Henlin wards, and let him go as soon as it was polite to do so. To his eyes, accustomed to seeing magic in the way his family had done for generations, Harry simply shone too brightly for comfort. He had summoned magic to drive Draco back, and hadn't let it go. Lightning bolts played about him, glowing and sizzling and striking the floorboards.
"Where is Medusa?" Harry asked quietly, stepping away from Owen and looking around the kitchen. It seemed smaller and darker now that his mother and his brother no longer played here as they had used to, Owen thought, looking around himself. Then he deliberately shoved the thought away. His mother still lived. His brother still lived, and had stepped past some of his infatuation with Draco, if his latest words were to be believed. He had no reason to think that more tragedy would befall his family.
"This way," he said, and guided Harry down the short corridor that led to his mother's bedroom.
She labored on her bed with her blanket over her legs, her breathing sharp and short but otherwise controlled. His mother would not indulge in the indignity of screaming, Owen thought. He came to her side and put his hand on her forehead. Medusa opened her eyes, saw him, and smiled faintly.
"Harry—has come?" she asked, timing the words around contractions. Owen watched her belly ripple under the blanket for a moment, and did not look away, much as he would have liked to. He knew Medusa had midwife spells that would help her ease the pain, keep the sheets clean and away from her skin, and clean up the blood and afterbirth. But the thought of what was happening to her body made him uneasy nonetheless.
"He has," he said, and Harry stepped up beside him and made a short bow to Medusa. Medusa nodded back, and then dropped her head back with a loud grunt as a pushing pain made itself known.
"What would you like me to do?" Harry asked quietly.
"Catch the baby when she comes," said Owen, and pointed to his mother's legs.
Harry blinked. "But surely a mother should be the first one to touch her child?" he asked.
"No," said Owen, wondering where he'd got that odd idea. "In the older days when house elves helped with most births, their hands were usually the ones that touched the pureblood children first." He gestured to his mother's jerking hips. "Who touches her first isn't what makes the difference. It's whose magic she feels first. House elf magic is neutral as far as children are concerned; they only react to human magic. In some cases, yes, it's important for their mother to be the one to touch them, but you're the one who will teach her to live in the world without fearing power, Harry. It's only right that she should feel your magic sweeping across her skin first."
Harry nodded as if he understood, but his face had gone pale and his eyes glossy for a moment. Owen wondered if he was reliving bad memories. If so, he was past them in a moment and kneeling at the end of the bed. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked Medusa. His power unfurled around him. This time, probably because he wasn't angry, there was only a low, shimmery glare that Owen felt well-prepared to deal with.
He heard the door open, and glanced up to see Michael entering. He nodded to his twin, then looked back as their mother spoke.
"Yes. Talk to me."
"What about?" Harry asked, as if the request hadn't disconcerted him. Come to that, Owen thought, he wasn't sure it had.
"The world as it will be when you have finished your vates duties." Medusa had to kick out the words around the babe kicking and struggling at her, but she managed. "The future you plan to build. Tell me about that."
Harry nodded. He was rubbing circles on Medusa's belly now. Owen didn't think it was his imagination that her contractions had grown less violent. "Very well. I plan for creatures to spend a lot of time talking to one another." A faint smile. "I'm sure that you've heard about the freed house elf who showed all those reporters what his people used to be like?"
"Can't—open—the—Prophet—without—it," said Medusa. Owen stepped forward and picked up the vial sitting ready on the bedside table, holding it so that his mother could see it. She nodded, her hair so stuck with sweat to her forehead that it didn't even move as she did so. Owen laid his wand against his right arm, holding the vial carefully in his left hand.
"Diffindo," he whispered.
As his blood poured from the cut into the vial, Harry went on talking, voice low and patient. "Giving back their voices to everyone, or hearing the voices that have been silent, will mean talking. And arguing. And debate. I fully expect some of the swift processes to slow to a crawl, because now we have to think about what we're doing to trees and centaurs and house elves as we move along. We might not be able to talk to some of the magical creatures; that was one reason we thought most of them unintelligent for so long. But some, like phoenixes, who will talk to us, can talk to them." Harry hummed, and a strand of blue fire uncoiled from his throat and flickered along his hair. Medusa's eyes followed it in wonder. Owen knew she had heard the phoenix song from a distance on the morning Harry ended the rebellion, but she had not seen the fire so close before. "There's no reason for us to put up barriers any more, for us to say that we can't help others because we can't understand them. We can. What we've been putting off doing is using that understanding. We want things fast. We don't like the idea of limits. We think everything should be ours just because we're wizards, or humans, or purebloods. But it's not true."
"That—will—be—" Medusa had to break off, her mouth opening in what looked like a wide yawn, and Owen knew it was the closest his mother had come to a scream. The vial was full now, and he corked it, while performing a spell that healed the cut on his arm. "Hard," she finally finished, with a grunt and a gasp, blowing the pain out in a voice only slightly higher than normal.
"It will be," said Harry. His hand continued to rub soothing circles. His silver hand rested on the bed, bracing him, and he never took his eyes off Medusa, though sometimes, Owen noted, he watched the blanket bobbing up and down, and sometimes he watched their mother's face. "I think most humans are accustomed to thinking of ourselves as the center of the universe, so even Muggleborns can't escape that trap. But it doesn't really matter. Things will change. We'll become part of the magical world, not the center. We'll realize that other creatures have a perfect right to ignore us, and to interact in ways that don't include us."
"And—other—Lords?"
"I'll deal with them," said Harry. "Bargain with them until the end of time, if I have to. Or fight them, though that I really don't favor, and won't unless it's a case of giving up my vates duties or my protection of Great Britain if I don't." His hand was rubbing in time to his words, Owen finally realized, spreading a soothing shell of protection around the babe. "I'm committed to this. I fully expect to die before it's achieved. If something like it can be made before I die, then it will be made with my help, not against my will."
Medusa let out a single high, thin screech, which Owen could pretend was like the battle cry of a harpy if he let himself. "The babe comes," she said. "You must be in place to catch her, Harry."
Harry adroitly flipped the blanket back and bent close. Owen shuddered. Better him than me. Yes, birthing rituals were sacred, but most of the time the father and a midwife were there to help it along. Owen did not want to see his mother's vagina close.
A moment later, Medusa let out an enormous whuff of breath, and Owen felt some of the magic she'd enchanted the bed and blankets with spring into motion, as they began to ease her daughter's passage into the world, clean up the afterbirth that followed, and clot the blood.
Then he heard a thin, pinched cry.
Harry sat back up slowly, face slightly dazed. In his arms wriggled and cried a bloody babe, smaller than his forearm, head twisting back and forth until Owen almost feared that she would snap her neck.
And Harry's magic swirled and flared around her, light that blazed and danced like magnesium on her skin. For a moment, she stopped crying and stared up at him, eyes wide in astonishment.
Owen seized the moment to perform the duties he had to as family head, and stepped forward. Harry held his little sister up, and Owen gently dripped the blood from the vial onto her forehead, down along her chest, and across her arms and legs.
"Cradled safe, protected, within the blood of Rosier-Henlin," he whispered. "I claim you for our family." Most often, this ritual was done when the child had her name, but that wouldn't matter so much as the fact that she had been born safely and then claimed. At one time, this would have been used to insure that a potential bastard child took after the father, and a stronger version was used to bind a magical heir to the family.
They had need of neither of those uses—Owen was as capable of imagining his mother in battle as he was of imagining her unfaithful to his father—and so the ancient magic took hold, setting all the blood on the little girl's body, both her mother's and her own, afire. Harry gasped, but Owen put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right," he said, in that tone that had soothed his brother when Michael was being his most difficult. "See? The flames don't scorch her."
And they didn't. They danced, pure dark green to inform anyone who liked that the Rosier-Henlin family claimed Dark pureblood allegiance, over her torso and head, and parted, swaying bright veils, over her face. In a moment, they were gone, and the blood burned away.
Harry reached out as if in a daze, and a basin of warm water sprang into being next to him, conjured from pure magic. Owen blinked, then cursed to himself. He knew there had been something he'd forgotten.
Harry cleaned the girl without taking his eyes from her. Owen couldn't tell what he thought, of the wrinkled face, or the red, small body, or the high, piercing screams. But his magic was what—Little Sister, he would call her Little Sister for now—felt, and that would serve her well later in life.
Owen did make sure to have a warm cloth that Harry could wrap her up in. By the time he did, she had stopped crying, as she got used to the feeling of powerful magic and was no longer cold. Her eyelids drooped, and her head bobbed on her neck. Harry supported her head, carefully, and then held her out to Medusa.
His mother looked longingly at her daughter, but shook her head. "Not until you have named her, Harry."
"But won't she be hungry soon?" Harry's eyes were huge, standing out behind his glasses. Owen bit his lip at the hysterical urge to laugh. He only felt he knew what to do because he was playing the role of family head even more than the role of much bigger brother. Harry looked half-terrified, as if Little Sister were about to be kidnapped by werewolves.
"She will," Medusa acknowledged, and Owen saw her smile through her exhaustion and pain as the midwife spells urged her legs shut. "So you had best name her swiftly."
Harry gave a quick little jerk of his head. "And you—the Rosier-Henlin naming traditions—"
"We give Little Sister entirely into your hands," Owen interrupted him, with a bow. "Name her what you feel is most appropriate, Harry. Don't worry about what names female ancestors of ours have had."
Harry swallowed, and nodded, and then stood staring at the baby in his arms for a long moment. Owen waited. He felt a fragile silence in the room even more powerful than that which had begun with the birth, and he could hear the deep steady breaths from his twin, waiting by the door.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Harry knew what he would like to name the little girl. He just wasn't sure that it would fit in well with the rest of the names in the Rosier-Henlin tradition. He toyed with the idea of naming her Charlotte, after her father, but for all he knew that might cause Medusa pain every time she looked at her—and the one thing he was certain of was that no one in the family would change her name once he'd given it.
Terror wheeled around him in a blaze darker than any of his creative magic as he stared into the tiny, sleepy, scowling face a few inches from his. Such responsibility. I've never had this much responsibility for defining a single life before.
He let himself look once more at the trust in Owen's eyes, and Medusa's. He couldn't see Michael's face from across the room, and he had the feeling that it was probably just as well.
He gave himself permission to use the name he would like, and breathed across her forehead first, whispering the name into her ear, so that she would be the first one to hear it, and always carry a small piece of private knowledge in her heart. That was one of the pureblood birthing rituals he'd studied, and always enjoyed and valued. She stirred, but didn't wake.
Harry looked up and said quietly, "Her name is Eos Rosier-Henlin. For the goddess of the dawn, because of the dawn she will live in." This time, he pressed his lips to her forehead in a kiss, which made her squirm and struggle back to wakefulness. The ritual had to include an original blessing, preferably one that connected with the meaning of the name. "Welcome to the world, little one. May you never forget the meaning of time as the original Eos did, and likewise may you never be a slave to it."
Eos began to cry then, but Harry had heard Owen's exhale of breath. He looked into Medusa's face as he handed Eos to her, and saw only contentment.
"That will do very well, Harry." Medusa drew forth her breast and gently arranged her child in position. Harry wasn't sure why that made him blush and turn away, when he'd been between her legs. But he'd been too involved in the blood and making sure that he was the one to touch Eos to really care, then. "A new name, in both my family and Charles's, but my name is Greek, and hers is, as well. A sign of good luck." She kissed Eos's forehead in turn.
Harry sighed, nearly falling over then and there with relief that he'd not done something wrong, and looked at Owen, unsure if there was anything else he needed to do. But Owen was engaged in smiling a smile very like his father's, and reaching out to stroke his newborn sister's head with delicate fingertips. Harry knew the ritual was done. He would wait until they went back to Hogwarts, since he could tear the wards on the home to escape, but he would prefer not to.
He leaned against the wall, and became aware of someone leaning next to him. Harry turned his head, and started in surprise. He hadn't even realized Michael was still there, and he hadn't expected him to approach him if he was. But instead, Michael was leaning forward and staring at him.
"That's really important to you, isn't it?" Michael asked.
"What is?" Harry asked, unsure which of the many aspects of the ritual or the birth just past Michael could be referring to. "New beginnings?"
Michael gave a jerky nod. He hesitated. Harry waited. He recognized the expression on Michael's face, not because he'd seen him wear it before but because he had seen it on other people. It meant they were thinking. It was a bad idea to push someone like that into speaking before they were ready.
"I've thought," said Michael, so softly his words were like ripples in running water. "I've changed my mind. Could I—could I please become your sworn companion again? I was wrong, and you were right, about the damage I caused last time, and with Draco. But I think I understand what you are now, and what Draco is, and I don't want this gaping chasm between you or him or my brother and me to open up any further." He shut his mouth with a snap, as if he thought he had said too much, and waited.
Harry sighed, and shook his head. He wanted to trust. He wanted to give second chances. But too much had happened between them.
Michael looked lost. He parted his lips, then looked away and shook his head. "I fucked up that much, huh?" he whispered.
"It's not just that," Harry said. "Or not solely that." He didn't know how to phrase it, mostly because he hadn't imagined that Michael would ever want to become his sworn companion again. He trod carefully, phrasing the words in his head long before he let them pass his lips. "It's also Draco. He would throw a fit. He might try to possess you again. And there's the chance that he would give in to the temptation of trying to flirt with you, simply to rouse my jealousy or to see what would happen."
"So he would do it because he was bored?" Michael's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline.
Harry nodded.
"And you love him, and you approve of this." Michael let out a deep breath. "And you don't think he's a weakness in your alliance?"
"I didn't say that I approve of it," Harry said quietly, hoping Owen and Medusa couldn't overhear them. What a conversation to have on the day the newest scion to the Rosier-Henlin family is born. "It's a fault in him, but I can't force him to change. I can only keep it from happening again, as much as possible, by attending to circumstances around me more than I did when it originally occurred." He blinked at Michael, who was still staring. "Do you understand me? I don't mean to blame you for loving Draco, or for what he did. You tried to protect him even then, and that's a sign that your feelings ran deeper than he realized. But I won't chance it happening again."
"You really don't want another sworn companion," Michael said flatly.
"I could use one." Harry didn't have to work to maintain his temper. He didn't think Michael understood his reasons for refusing him. "But it's not you. It can't be you. I'm sorry."
Michael turned away from him, and murmured, "Do you know what it feels like to have your brother refuse to talk to you, because, by his standards, you did something to wrong the rest of the family?"
"Well, yes," said Harry.
He saw Michael's shoulders stiffen, but he said no more. Instead, he walked over to the bed and began to greet Eos with soft touches and softer words.
And that was right, Harry thought, rubbing his silver hand across his eyes. He wasn't a stranger in this bedroom. The one who really didn't belong, who was only here by the grace of the family, was Harry.
He waited in silence and patience for Owen to be ready to go back to Hogwarts. He wasn't looking forward to the confrontation that would happen when they arrived. Draco would understand his reasons for attending the birth no more than Michael had understood his reasons for refusing to accept a new oath from him.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Draco didn't.
"I want to know why you left me behind," he'd said, very directly, and Harry, who had picked up his Potions essay as if he actually wanted to work on it, had replied as directly.
"Because you would have caused tension with Michael, and intruded on the birthing ritual for Eos," he said, sharpening the quill on the heel of his silver hand. Draco had told him that was disturbing. Harry had argued that it was not, as long as the hand still wasn't alive enough to feel what he did to it. "And Syrinx would have had to come, and there was no explicit invitation to include her."
"That's not very fair to her," Draco pointed out.
"It's right," Syrinx said from her chair, in a puzzled voice. "Why would it have to be fair?"
Draco shot her an annoyed glance. It was true that, most of the time, he enjoyed having a bodyguard. Syrinx was silent and efficient, and knew her place, including enough pureblood rituals to correct Draco if he was about to make himself look like a fool. But she reminded him of nothing so much as Harry in the first two years Draco had known him. That wasn't an image he liked, or a memory he wanted to encourage to return.
"Harry," he insisted, focusing on him. "That's not a good enough reason. I wanted to go, and you left me behind." He let a carefully considered petulant tone into his voice. He was willing to sound like he was whinging if it would get him what he wanted.
"I didn't bind you," Harry said. "I just said that you weren't going. In this case, I considered Owen's will, and Michael's, and Medusa's, more important than yours, Draco. That's all." He bent down and put his quill to parchment.
"You burned me."
"Made you let go of me," Harry corrected absently, at the same time as he corrected a mistake on the parchment. "And it didn't hurt, Draco. I know that you took your hand away before my skin could truly get hot."
"You don't really care, do you?" Draco could hear his voice rising, and was glad that most of the other Slytherins had gone to bed. Those who remained watched him with barely concealed amusement. He found himself unable to mind, though. He could make a scene, and perhaps that would change Harry's absent words to apologies. "I told you I haven't felt safe since Rosier's attack. You wouldn't have cared if you came back and found me gone again, or under the Lung Domination Curse." Of course he didn't believe that, but he wanted to make Harry say he was sorry.
Harry looked up at him.
Draco took a step back, feeling as if he'd been hit with a lead weight. With a quick shake of his head, Harry gathered up his essay, quill, and inkwell, and turned for the common room door.
"Where are you going?" Draco called after him.
"Out of your sight," Harry responded, voice straining on the edge of calm. "You've been acting like a brat all week, Draco. I indulged it. Why shouldn't I? You'd had a bad scare. I almost lost you. And most of what you did was harmless enough, and hurt no one other than me. Now, you're being unreasonable, and you know better. You're not afraid, you're just trying to use my fear of losing you to manipulate me."
"That's what Slytherins do," said Draco, hiding behind a weak defense.
"No, Slytherins manipulate subtly," said Harry, and he walked out of the common room. The door shut behind him with a grating slide.
No one else in the common room would look at him, Draco found when he turned round. He picked up his homework, and, fuming, went to bed. Most of him was just irritated, though, not angry. Harry would return in a few minutes, and apologize, or laugh with him over it, and then tell him the real reason that he hadn't wanted Draco to come with him tonight. Perhaps it had to do with fearing to daze Michael with Draco's beauty again.
The minutes became hours, until Draco had to accept that Harry wasn't returning to their bedroom that night.
And that made him think that perhaps the reasons Harry had given him were the real ones, and the emotion that had made him stagger back when Harry looked at him—disappointment—was real, too.
Draco punched the pillow savagely. He'd thought that he had some kind of absolute control over Harry after Rosier's attack.
It hurt to realize that he didn't, and that Harry was still perfectly capable of walking away from him when he thought he was being childish. Even Harry's tolerance, it seemed, had limits.
